During the feast, the King of the Fomorii turned to Diarmuid and said: “You may have whatever reward it is in my gift to give you. What will you have? I will give you all the gold and silver you desire; you can marry my daughter and become heir to my kingdom.”
Diarmuid shook his head sadly. “If I married your daughter, I could not return to my own land above the waves.”
“True enough. But here you would spend many happy days and would be honoured by everyone.”
Diarmuid shook his head again. “I have only one thing to ask of you, King of the Fomorii.”
“Ask away. I promise to give you whatever you want.”
“Then all I want is the boat to return me to the ship of the Feans from whence I came. My own land is dear to me, as are my kinsmen and friends, the Feans. Above all, my loyalty lies to Fingal, who is my chief.”
“Then,” said the King of the Fomorii, “What you desire is yours.”
The entire palace came with Diarmuid to the boat and the Princess Muirgen took him aside and held his hand a moment.
“I shall never forget you, Diarmuid. You found me in suffering and gave me relief. You found me dying and gave me life. When you are back in your own land, remember me; I shall never pass an hour of life without thinking of you in joy and thankfulness.”
Then Diarmuid stepped into the boat, and the boatman, who was the very same man as had come with the news of the Princess Muirgen’s illness, began to row him upwards from the Land Beneath the Waves. Soon they came to the warship of the Feans. The ship was resting where they had left it, near the Eas-Ruaidh, the Red Cataract. The Feans saw him coming and came crowding round as he climbed up.
“What is the matter?” cried Oscar, coming forward. “Did you forget something?”
“You must not tarry,” advised Goll, frowning. “The Princess is in danger.”
When Diarmuid expressed his puzzlement at their concerns, Fingal told him that he had been gone but a few seconds. Then Diarmuid understood.
“I have been in the Land under the Waves for many Otherworld days, each day being a second of the time passed here. In the land that I visited, there is no night nor day to guide the keeping of time. Anyway, the Princess Muirgen is now alive and well and glad I am to be home among you.”
Then the Feans raised sail, rejoicing, and continued in their warship until they came to the great fortress which was their home, and they feasted and celebrated the homecoming of Diarmuid the Healer.
16 Maighdean-mhara
There are mermaids and there are sea-maids, and the one must not be confused with the other. Mermaids can be winsome creatures, sometimes mischievous but never evil. But sea-maids, well, there’s another kettle of fish. Avoid them, as your life depends on it; indeed, sometimes it will be more than your life that is at stake. The story of Murdo Sean is an example of that.
It happened long ago near Inverary, which stands on the shores of Loch Fyne, in Argyll. Inverary was once a great fishing town. Have you ever seen its town arms and its motto? “May there always be a herring in your net!” Aye, it was famed for the herring catch and its kippers, too.
Above the town, on Duniquaich Hill, stood the watchtower of the Campbells of Loch Awe, whose castle rose black against the sky. For they say that the race of the “Crooked Mouth”, which is the meaning of the Campbell name, owned the town and its people.
It happened that there was a period of poor times in the town, when the fish were not running in the waters thereabouts. Fish were more scarce than gold; indeed, not even gold could buy fish in the market of Inverary. Still, the Campbells demanded their rents and tithes from the people and there was much suffering there.
Among the fishermen out one day was Murdo Sean, or Murdo the Old, and he had no better luck than any. For weeks, his nets had come in as empty as he had cast them out. He was in despair. For the bailiff of the Campbells had sworn that, if he did not pay his rent, he and his ageing wife would be cast out of his cottage, where he and his ancestors had dwelt for many hundreds of years. His old mare and his old bitch dog would be taken away as the property of the Campbells.
Sadness was on him like a black rain cloud, when he felt his boat being rocked and, turning, he saw a sea-maid, leaning over the bow of his vessel. Yes: a sea-maid and not a mermaid.
“If I fill your nets with fish, old man,” she inquired, “What will you give me?”
Murdo Sean shrugged eloquently. “There is nothing I have to give.”
The sea-maid regarded him speculatively. “What about your first-born son?”
Murdo Sean laughed outright. “I have no son. At my age, I am not likely to have one.”
Indeed, he was called sean, which means old, because he was the oldest man in Inverary.
“Tell me about your family,” invited the sea-maid, still interested.
“As well as myself, there is my wife, who is well past childbearing age, being only a few years younger than myself. Then there is my old mare and my old bitch dog. Another few years should see us all in the Otherworld, if not before, because this evening we shall be evicted by the mighty lords who dwell in the castle above the town.”
“Not so,” replied the sea-maid firmly. And she took from a purse around her waist twelve curious-looking grains. “Take these grain, old man. Give three to your wife, three to your mare and three to your bitch dog and plant three behind your house. In three months’ time, your wife will bear three sons, your mare three foals, your bitch dog three puppies and behind your house three trees will grow.”
Murdo Sean laughed. “You are joking with me, sea-maid. And why would my garden be in need of trees?”
“Not I,” she replied sternly. “Indeed, the trees will be a sign. When one of your sons dies, one of the trees will wither. Away home with you now, and do as I say.”
Murdo Sean laughed bitterly. “How can I do this, when my wife and I will be thrown out of our cottage tonight?”
“Cast your nets into the water. Your nets will henceforth be full of fish and you will prosper well and live a long life. But remember me. In three years’ time, you will bring me your first-born son as my reward. Do you agree?”
Well, Murdo Sean had nothing to lose and so he agreed.
Now, of course, everything happened as the sea-maid had promised it would. He took home that day enough fish to pay the bailiff of the Campbells. Not only that day but thereafter.
The fisherman and his wife had three sons, the mare had three foals, the dog three puppies and three trees grew in his garden. But what is more, the fisherman’s nets were always full of fish and he was prosperous and grew rich and happy. Indeed, he became very prosperous in Inverary and became independent of the Campbells entirely.
Three years passed and he knew that the time had come to repay the sea-maid. Yet he could not find it in his heart to take his first-born son to sea to give him to her.
When the time approached, he was out in his boat again when it started to rock. There at the prow was the sea-maid, leaning over the edge and regarding him with a serious expression. The old fisherman noticed that she was carrying an infant of three years of age in her arms.
“Well, Murdo Sean,” she said, “the time has come. Where is your first born son?”
Murdo Sean thought hard. “Is it today that my three years are up? I had forgotten that this was the day I should bring him. Forgive me.”
The sea-maid was clearly annoyed but she sighed and said: “I will be lenient with you, Murdo Sean, for I have in my arms the son of another fisherman who has fulfilled his promise to me and I cannot handle the both. I will allow you seven years more, and then you must bring him to me.”
Murdo Sean continued to prosper and, seven years later, he was on his boat when it rocked and there at the prow looking at him was the sea-maid. She carried in her arms a boy of ten years of age.
“Well, Murdo Sean, where is your son?”
“Oh dear, is this the day I should have brought him to you? I had forgotten entirely
.”
The sea-maid looked at him in annoyance and then sighed. “I will be lenient with you, Murdo Sean, for I have in my arms the son of another fisherman who has fulfilled his promise to me and I cannot handle the both. I will allow you a further seven years. But no longer.”
She dived off into the water and was gone.
Murdo Sean returned home very happy, for he was now so old that he was sure that he would be dead before the next seven years passed and that he would never again have to face the sea-maid. But, indeed, he and his wife continued well and prosperous. The seven years passed in the blink of an eye and the day soon arrived when he was due to take his first-born and give him to the sea-maid. The night before, he was troubled and restless and he sent for his first-born son, who was now seventeen; and, at seventeen, according to custom, the boy had reached the aimsir togú or “age of choice”, when he was a man.
Murdo Sean told his son, who was called Murdo Òg, or Young Murdo, everything about the sea-maid.
“I will go and confront this sea-maid, father,” he said, for he was a proud young man and no coward. “I will confront her and spare you the consequences of not handing me over to her.”
But Murdo Sean pleaded with him not to go, for he knew the power of the sea-maid.
“Well, then, if I am not to face her, then I must arm myself and leave Inverary.”
And he went to Gobhan, the smith, and asked the man to make him as fine a sword as possible.
Now the first sword Gobhan made was too light, and the metal blade broke, splintering into fragments, when the young man tried it out. Then the second blade broke clean in two halves. But the third stood the young man’s testing. Satisfied, Murdo Òg took the night-black horse, the first-born from his father’s old mare, and the black dog, the first-born of his father’s old bitch dog, and he set off on the road away from Inverary.
He was not far along the road around Loch Fyne when he came across the carcass of a deer which had been freshly slain. There was no sign of anyone near to claim it. But nearby was a falcon perched on a tree and an otter on the bank of the loch and a wild dog on the land. They were hungry. The young man also felt hungry. After checking once more that no hunters were about to claim the slain deer, Murdo Òg divided the meat between the dog, the falcon and the otter. As each animal received their portion, they promised to help Murdo Òg if he ever needed it.
Murdo shared his portion with his black dog while his horse grazed in a field.
He rode on and came to the great castle of Campbell, “Crooked Mouth”, the chief of his clan, and ruler of all the lands in the vicinity. The chief demanded to know what the young man sought. Murdo Òg said he wanted work, for he had refused to take anything from his father other than his clothes, sword, horse and dog. He did not want to be beholden any more than possible to the largesse of the sea-maiden.
It so happened that Campbell “Crooked Mouth” needed a cowherd for his cattle, and so Murdo Òg accepted the job. But the grass around Campbell’s castle was so poor that the milk-yield of his cattle was low. Murdo Òg was very conscientious, and so he decided to search further afield for good grazing than in the fields of the chief. He moved the cattle so far that he crossed the boundaries of Campbell’s territory and came to a very fertile green glen.
It was the lad’s misfortune that the glen belonged to a giant of a man named Athach. The man was mean and of an irritable temper. When he saw Murdo Òg grazing the cattle in his glen, he did not even hesitate to greet him, but drew his sword and rushed on the youth with a terrible battle-cry. Now the boy was nimble with his sword and soon Athach was stretched on the green swathe with his heart pierced.
Murdo Òg saw the man’s cabin not far away and, in curiosity, he went to it, finding it deserted, for none but Athach dwelt there. Inside the house there were many great riches. It seems that all mean men, like Athach, are able to gather riches and keep them. Murdo was truly amazed as he gazed on them. But, being conscientious and moral, knowing they did not belong to him, he took none of them. Indeed, he also buried Athach behind the cabin and erected a marker there, and swore that he would try to find Athach’s next of kin.
He grazed Campbell’s cattle in the valley and soon their milk-yield was so rich that when Campbell heard the news, he sent for Murdo Òg and told him how pleased he was with him. Murdo Òg continued to graze Campbell’s cattle in the glen until the grass was exhausted and he had to move into a second glen. To his surprise, he had no sooner entered this glen but he thought he saw Athach, alive, and rushing on him with his sword and uttering a terrible battle-cry. He had to defend himself. Being nimble with his weapon, he slew the second giant of a man.
In the cabin of the second giant, he found an inscription: “this belongs to Famhair, brother of Athach”. There were just as many riches in the cabin as those in Athach’s cabin. Murdo Òg would take none of them and, instead, he buried Famhair behind the cabin and erected a marker, swearing he would find out who the next of kin was.
One night he returned to Campbell’s castle with his cows, to find the chief’s retinue in uproar. It seemed that a three-headed female monster had arisen from Loch Fyne and was demanding that the chief sacrifice his only daughter, Finnseang, who was a beautiful young maid, and the flower of Campbell’s eye: for, indeed, she was his only child.
“What will happen?” demanded Murdo Òg of one of the milkmaids, who was milking the cows.
“One of the warriors, a suitor of the chief’s daughter, is going to engage the monster in combat tomorrow at first light,” she told him. “All will be well, for the warrior is Campbell’s best champion and no man in the land has ever scratched him in combat.”
So, the next day, everyone took up vantage positions along the shore of Loch Fyne and the terrible, fearsome three-headed monster appeared in its waters. The champion marched down to the shore; he looked proud and confident, with his buckler and great sword ready. But when the monster began to approach, he turned white, the sweat of fear stood on his brow and he turned, casting away his weapons, shield and sword, and fled.
The monster roared its challenge. Then it stated that the chief’s daughter, Finnseang, was to be brought to the water’s edge at dawn the next morning, unless any other champion could be found.
With a sorrowful heart, Campbell, the chief, knew there was no other hero in all his land better than the one who had fled before the monster. There was nothing to do but surrender to the three-headed monster that which it demanded. He bade farewell of his only child and led her down to the shore of Loch Fyne at the appointed hour. Everyone returned to the castle, including the old chief, to mourn the sacrifice, for they could not bear to witness it.
However, Murdo Òg did not return to the castle but he went to the shore of the loch and found the chieftain’s daughter crying to herself as she waited for the loathsome monster to appear.
“Fear not,” he told her, “I will defend you.”
“But you are only the cowherd,” she protested in amazement.
“A cowherd’s hand is as steady as that of any warrior, and his sword is just as sharp.”
She nodded, feeling remorse at having made so silly a comment. “And his heart is just as brave,” she added contritely.
“But it is true, as you have said, I am a cowherd and have been hard at work. So, therefore, I am tired. I will sleep until the monster comes. Be sure that you wake me when it approaches, and you must do so by taking the gold ring which you wear on your finger and placing it on mine.”
“I will do so willingly, if it wakes you to fight the monster.”
He fell asleep by her side and she sat waiting and watching. Then she heard the monster rising from the watery depths, crying out that it had come to claim her. So she took off her gold ring and placed it on his finger and he awoke with a start.
The sun came up and the three-headed monster rose out of the loch.
Murdo Òg went forward with his sword ready.
The combat was long and hard
but, finally, Murdo Òg managed to slice off one of the three heads. And he took the head and stuck it on a stout stick of withy, which is a branch of the osier willow. Meantime, the monster went screeching across the loch; the waters were whipped into a blood-red froth as it threshed and clawed its way without its third head.
Murdo Òg turned to the chief’s daughter. “You must not tell a soul that it was I who defended you.”
Finnseang took a vow not to do so. Then he returned to tend his cattle herd and she returned to the castle.
That evening he returned to the castle to find the people in an uproar.
“The monster has returned. It is two-headed now,” a dairy maid told Murdo Òg. “It says that Finnseang must be sacrificed to it unless a champion comes to best it.”
Murdo Òg was surprised but he was about to go to Finnseang’s aid when the dairy maid said: “But fear not, for Campbell has a new champion, much braver than the other, and he has gone to defend Finnseang. For he has told Campbell that it was he who took the first head off the monster.”
Murdo Òg was astonished that the warrior could make such a false claim.
“What does Finnseang say?” he asked.
“She says nothing. She does not deny it nor name anyone else.”
Murdo Òg sighed. Finnseang was true to the promise that she had made him, for he had told her not to reveal that he had defended her.
So everyone went down to the loch shore to witness the combat. The second champion went out to fight with the two-headed monster. No sooner did the monster approach him than he turned white and the sweat of fear was on him. He turned, throwing aside his shield and sword and ran off and was never seen in Campbell country again.
Now the monster called to Campbell “Crooked Mouth”, the chieftain: “Place your daughter by the side of the loch before dawn and I will come for her, unless you have another brave champion to prevent me.”
Sorrowfully, the next day before dawn, Campbell took leave of his daughter and left her weeping by the side of the loch. No one else remained with her, for none wanted to see the terrible sacrifice of Finnseang.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 27
